You can’t say that on the air: the stripper edition

 

Richard Cranial time! Think about that one for a second. It’s one of the few ways we can use THAT phrase on the air, and it ALWAYS makes me laugh when the light switches on and someone gets what we’ve been saying all this time.

The story read: Manhattan chef David Kupferstein was enjoying some adult fun at Manhattan’s Hustler Club where he struck up a conversation with one of the dancers. At one point, the dancer told him about how her children were getting in to trouble with the police, to which Kupferstein responded: “It sounds like you are a  bad mother.” Kupferstein is now suing the club for $1 million, claiming that the dancer’s ensuing punch to his face knocked out one of his teeth. Kupferstein now says, “I guess it is sort of insulting to tell a woman she is a bad mother.”

My reaction: Thank you Captain Obvious! You probably deserved more than one punch to the face, and I hope you lose your stupid lawsuit.

The not fit for air responses that showed up shortly after:

• “Most strippers are trying to put themselves through school. How old was that woman with kids old enough to get in trouble with the cops? She is stripping to put her kids through collage? (Well…you mean is she, and college, so that’s a good place to start with this argument. Also, perhaps she started young. I mean, kids can get in trouble with the police at a pretty young age. It’s not a stretch to think she could be well under 30 and have kids that were little heathens.)
• I’d have to agree being a single mom myself that if you’re showing off your tits to pay your bills that you’re a bad mom. Leave that occupation to 21yr olds with no kids. (Ok sweetheart, you get bonus points for being able to use your and you’re in their correct forms, but you can just zip it with the mom shaming. As a single mom yourself, you should be able to appreciate the fact that this woman is clearly doing what the hell ever it takes to make sure her kids are provided for. I’m sure she didn’t grow up wanting to be a stripper. Shit happens; you adapt.)

Moral of the story: Maybe being a stripper is likely the very best way this woman could provide for her kids. That doesn’t make her a bad mom. These people would probably think she was a bad mom if she was home with them all day every day because she was living on the welfare system. She’d be a bad mom if she worked a respectable job and the kids were in trouble with the law anyway. Bottom line, the mom shaming has to stop, but in her case, more power to her for having the guts to do whatever she has to do to provide for her kids.

I’ve often thought it’d be far less stressful to just quit my job and be a stripper, but I’m always left with the reality that I’m fat, and I can’t dance, so that’s a career path I won’t ever be taking.

 

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Chivalry is clearly not dead

I had a Ladies Night fundraising event to attend last weekend, and I had been looking forward to a chance to wear Halston and Louboutin in the suffocatingly small town I live in ever since we started planning it. Yes, Halston and Louboutin would have been WAY too overdressed for this shindig, but opportunities like this are few and far between, so I was going to do it anyway.

As the date of the event drew closer, the realization set in that I had COMPLETELY overbooked myself with 2 events that I couldn’t skip, located 3 hours away from each other. With a little schedule switching, and a little skipping out on the event set up, I was able to work it so I could make it to both, but only if Mother Nature cooperated. Well, Mother Nature can’t wear Halston and Louboutin, so she made damn sure I couldn’t either, by deciding last weekend would be PERFECT for heavy wet snowfall.  Whatever Mother Nature, whatever. Thanks to the drive home taking longer than usual, I wouldn’t have had time for the hair and makeup required for that wardrobe selection anyway.

Option 2 for clothing came straight from the trunk of my car in the form of distressed denim skinny jeans and a shirt from a shopping trip that hadn’t quite made it in the house yet. It’s an odd little place, this town I live in, where you can go to an event that appropriate wardrobe choices can be black tie optional couture or off the rack ripped jeans and a high collar sleeveless dress shirt. It’s definitely not the designer get up I wanted to be in, but it had pockets, and that’s even better.

I was helping finish final set up before the doors opened when it was apparent that several of us needed a little caffeinated help to make it through the evening, and since I was the designated runner, that also meant a stop for more supplies for mimosas. I had ZERO time (or desire) to go find my coat, so I just took off without it. Realizing how stupid that was, but also not wanting to throw on the blazer in my car, because that made the shirt I had on look FAR too matronly for my taste, I ran in to the store amidst looks from people who made it apparent they thought I was COMPLETELY insane. In all actuality, it didn’t feel that cold, and I was outside for a grand total of 30 seconds, so it wasn’t that big of a deal anyway.

On my way back out to my car, the snow REALLY started coming down, so arms full of junk, I ran to my car and dropped it in the trunk. This happened right at the same time a very kind man was backing in to the space next to me. I have absolutely no idea who it was, and I’m sure he just wondered who this idiot in the parking lot with no sleeves or coat was. He rolled down his window and asked “Hey, do you want to borrow a coat?”

I laughed, as I tried unsuccessfully to figure out who it was, because the snow was falling so hard I could barely see, and said “I’m good. Thank you though!”

His response: “Can I get a selfie then?”

I hope he was fast with his camera, because as he was saying that, I was literally climbing in to my car, and I definitely wasn’t waiting in the snow for him to get out and take a picture with me. I was already dangerously close to my hair turning in to the texture of a Chia Pet, and it’s green already so it would have looked just like one.

I still have no idea who this dude was. I don’t have a clue how he would have even got the coat back that he was so willing to let me borrow. I wasn’t cold anyway, so I wouldn’t have taken it even if I wasn’t in immediate danger of becoming a Chia Pet or needing to get back to the fundraiser. Still, his parents should be very proud of him for keeping chivalry alive and well. As for me, I’m just thrilled that even running on no sleep, with no makeup, and hair on the verge of a green Bob Ross, I’m still apparently just barely attractive enough to be the recipient of such chivalry.

Where did you receive your law degree?

A couple of years ago, someone (probably a bunch of someones) with more time on their hands than common sense in their heads decided to pay a visit to the State Attorney General’s office because they were positive that ALL of the gas stations in the area were raking in money hand over fist, and they just had to be working together to keep the price of gas artificially inflated. This resulted in every gas station in the area receiving a nice little official “request” for information from the Office of the Attorney General early last year. It was stupid, easily handled in-house, and we never heard another word about it. I ran in to someone from one of the other stations the other day and the following conversation happened.

Them: Hey, did you ever hear back from the Attorney General’s Office about that stuff they sent?
Me: Not a thing, but I’m not surprised about that. Did you?
Them: We’ve been called 2 more times since then. How did you luck out?
Me: I sent in a 7 page answer to their 4 pages of interrogatories, along with 500 pages of supporting documents for 1 quarter of their 2 year look back period with a note asking how they would like me to proceed with the other 3500 pages of supporting documents. It worked like a charm, and we never heard anything back.
Them: I can’t believe you did that.
Me: Well, it worked, obviously. It was a frivolous request for information anyway. There is absolutely no way for us to do what they think we were allegedly doing.
Them: (sarcastically) Where did you get your law degree?
Me: Well, I had just binge watched a couple seasons of Suits, so the USA Network; thanks Harvey Specter.
Them: (still sarcastic as hell) *eye roll* So you didn’t get any advice from an attorney or anything? Like, this was all requested by the Attorney General’s office, and you really just handled it yourself and didn’t have any problems.
Me: Sorry, I guess someone forgot to tell me that I was supposed to be intimidated by them.

Hometown Tindering

I make it a point to not really pay tinder that much attention in my hometown. I mean, I’ll open it and check it out, but I RARELY right swipe where I live. I don’t know why, I just don’t do it. Well, until this weekend that is.

Last week someone showed up in tinder who is my age, lives in the same town, is a grown ass man with his shit together, and we have 30 friends in common. So I did what anyone would do under these circumstances: I closed tinder so I didn’t have to decide which direction to swipe. Then I repeated that process every day until Friday when I finally swiped right, and matched instantly. That’s cool. He swiped right first, #winning.

It didn’t stop there though. This match didn’t result in the usual automatic un-match, and either did my confession as to which one of our mutual friends I was the closest to.  He seems cool, understands basic grammar rules, and appreciates the fact that brunch is the best meal of the entire week.

This of course meant it was time to move to the next logical step: Facebook stalking. Don’t judge me. You know you’d do it too. Except you probably wouldn’t be the idiot that accidentally sends a friend request while you’re Facebook stalking, then cancels it as fast as humanly possible, while hoping he’s one of the few people in the world that doesn’t have the Facebook app installed on their smart phone. I’m pretty sure I’m not that lucky, so instead, I had to send an awkward tinder confession, and the whole time was glad the first interaction we had went a little like this:

Him: Hi! I don’t think we’ve ever met.
Me: Hey! I don’t think we have either. Strange since we have so many friends in common. I’m probably the weird one they’re keeping you away from.

Well….at least I had the common sense to come right out with that one so any further stupidness on my part can be explained simply by saying “I warned you the very first time I said anything to you.”

You can’t say that on the air: pilot episode

Remember that old Nickelodeon show “You Can’t Do That On Television” where they doused everyone in slime? Just aged myself didn’t I? Well, every time something crosses my path in my radio prep that I can’t share because it’s too late in the morning, or it’s the afternoon, or it’s just too much for ANY time of the day on a show that isn’t on satellite radio where that kind of stuff doesn’t matter, I think “Man, I wish there was somewhere else I could share this.” Well…duh Discovery Channel…I have the PERFECT outlet for that. So, without further adieu, here’s the pilot episode of “You Can’t Say That on the Air.”

How cold is it? Pretty nippy! Dr. Sanjay Acharya of the Maine Medical Center emergency room says they’ve been treating patients for hyperextreme nipple glaciation. In layman’s terms that’s chipped nipples! It only occurs when temperatures drop below 10 degrees Fahrenheit and even bundling up can’t always protect against it. The doctor said, “From a scientific standpoint, there just isn’t enough research into the causes of nipple chippage beyond the fact that it’s colder than a whore’s heart in church.” For someone suffering from such a condition, it’s recommended they get inside and perhaps have a hot toddy or two to get the heart pumping.

Nipple chippage?! Colder than a whore’s heart in church?! Is that colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra? I mean, according to this, you wouldn’t want to be a witch in a brass bra, because you would apparently be subject to freaking chipped nipples! There is not a world where I can say ANY of that after 630am on a radio station in Utah. Nope…not at all. In the big mouth Snapchat filtered viral words of Heather Land “Nipple chippage…..I ain’t doin’ it.”

Sometimes you just have to jump off the wagon.

I have seriously been kicking some serious butt in the “no sugary sweets or soda” department. It happened completely by accident. I started using these products during the week before Halloween. They completely killed my sugar cravings, and since I wasn’t craving it, I wasn’t eating it. It was truly a miracle, not even the myriad of Reese’s peanut butter goodies were tempting.

I didn’t realize how overly sweet so many of the things we eat are until I went a while without it. A few weeks ago, when the kid was home, I figured I’d be nice and take some food like substance from McDonald’s home for him to eat. I grabbed his cheeseburgers and sweet tea and headed home with it. When I absent-mindedly took a sip of his sweet tea, I almost spit it out. The crap was pure liquid sugar with ZERO tea taste whatsoever.

Perfect. Tastebuds reset. Sugary crap is sweet again. Life was good. And then came Christmas treat season.

Some family members dropped off chocolate covered pretzles, which the kid ate all of without asking. No problem; I don’t need them anyway. The plate of cookies he devoured, still no problem. But when my friend sent home a box of goodies that included Oreo truffles, which TBH, are probably the best treat ever, too sweet or not, the kid wasn’t getting the chance to eat them all. I told myself “just one,” and I was convinced I could stop at that. It was sickeningly sweet, but so good. I really could have stopped at just one too, but then I remembered what a little butthead the kid had been earlier that day, so I ate the other 3 too, just so he couldn’t have them. All of the sugar gave me a massive headache, but not as big as the one that he’s been (from time to time) for 18 years and running.

It was worth it. I’d do it again, but next time, I’d probably wait until he sees the last one, and then I’d take it so he couldn’t have it.  It would be much more satisfying, in the Jimmy Kimmel “I told my kids I ate all of their Halloween candy” way if he knew what kind of goodies he missed out on because I actually don’t HAVE to share when he’s being a giant a-hole. Sometimes you fall off the wagon; sometimes you jump off on purpose for the greater good…